Perks of Masochism- Johnlock
by WingsOfDuskAndDawn
Summary: Sherlock acts rather strangely after his return, and John hates that he constantly puts himself in danger. A conversation with Greg makes John reconsider their relationship, and if you can't guess what happens after that, you can read all about it. ;) I OWN NOTHING.


**A/N: This is a bit longer than my usual one-shots, but then, it's taken a little longer to write, so I guess that makes sense. It kind of blossomed from a statement I made in real life that struck me as horribly accurate and definitely applicable to my own life, and certainly to John and Sherlock's, especially if you look at it from the shipping point of view (which I'm pretty sure we all do; why would we be here otherwise?). This one might actually get a sequel, just because I feel like there's probably more I could do with these versions of the characters. If you feel like that's something you're into, do let me know. Either way, please do enjoy!**

**~Wings**

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><p>"I don't bloody understand it!" John frowned, setting down his pint and glaring at it moodily, one finger tracing errantly around the rim. "He just runs right into danger like it doesn't faze him at all, even when he's nearly killed or worse."<p>

Talking to Greg after a case was something John had taken to doing more often recently. Ever since Sherlock had returned, he'd been different. He was even more reckless than usual, if possible, and allowed John to protect him less and less often. John had begun to wonder what it was he was doing wrong, which was what had led to several pub outings over the past couple of months, including the current one, triggered by Sherlock's near death at the hands of a knife-wielding murderer in a tiny, dead-end alleyway. John had barely gotten there in time, and when he'd yelled at Sherlock, the other man had simply shrugged it off and walked away, hands tucked in his pockets and face blank.

"John, there are two kinds of masochists in this world. Those who don't care about themselves, and those who care about others." Lestrade had been hanging out with Mycroft too much lately, clearly, because John found himself thinking that was the sort of statement the politician would have made. He actually spared a moment to wonder if Greg mightn't have borrowed the words from him, but decided that since he didn't understand it anyway, it didn't matter much.

"What does that even mean, anyway?" He asked petulantly, and Greg sighed into his pint, wondering when Mycroft would be back from his trip. He was supposed to have been back earlier that day, but it had ceased to surprise Greg when Mycroft came back to London late, occasionally sporting injuries.

"It means, John, that the two of you are two sides of a coin. And if you think about it, those two sides really aren't so different, or as far apart as they think they are. They just won't turn around and really look at what they've got, always watching their back."

It was entirely too philosophical for John, who'd wanted to maybe get a little drunk and curse at a football game, so he decided to let it go, finishing his pint and paying off his tab, saying goodbye before walking home to Baker Street.

Except the words didn't leave his head, and he found himself turning them over and over in his thoughts, becoming a little bit clearer with every step. The alcohol was losing its influence quickly, and John was starting to realize that if Mycroft _had_ said those words, there was probably a message buried in there somewhere. He carefully considered everything Greg had said from the first comment on, but by the time he got back to the flat, the only explanation he could come up with seemed so totally absurd that he wondered if he was still very pissed.

Shaking his head at himself, and the over-analysis that would have put _Sherlock_ to shame, John opened the door with mostly steady hands and entered their flat, only to find Sherlock lying on his back on the couch, eyes closed, breathing deep and even, face oddly vulnerable in the slanted starlight. His face wasn't quite at ease, almost as if he was dreaming something that had him a little upset, but no words left those lips… until John, who'd decided he was still too drunk to deal with the situation properly, headed for the stairs. Then he whispered the one syllable that was sure to stop the doctor in his tracks, of course.

"John." He sounded unbearably young, a little raw, and a little bit sad, as his hand twitched almost like he was trying to hold onto something. A small sob escaped him, and then he began to move, obviously unable to find comfort in sleep. John wondered what the dream had been about, and why Sherlock had sounded forlorn, even heartbroken, and promptly decided that the lure of his bed wasn't half as tempting as that of the consulting detective, fast asleep for once.

Remembering Greg's words from earlier yet again, John found himself smiling, barely resisting the urge to laugh. It took one word from Sherlock to make him rethink any decision, even when that choice might be the difference between life and death. Even in his sleep, he had the ability to make John practically fall at his feet. Who had John been trying to kid? He loved the irritating, infuriating bastard, loved him with the strength of someone who knew the very worst of him and had ceased to care from the first time those eyes had met his and filled with… surprise? Hope? Fear? A little of all three? Whatever it had been, it had hooked him, and even if it hadn't been love at first sight, it certainly was love now. So much, he thought, for thinking he was straight.

The only question that remained was what he might do about it. It wasn't as if Sherlock was interested in relationships. John decided to simply carry him to bed and figure things out at his own pace, in the morning. He only noticed that Sherlock was half hard when the lanky git was already in his arms, at which point it would have been a little awkward to try and put him down on the couch again, with the way he curled up against him, instinctively seeking heat in his sleep.

John managed to get him into bed with a fair bit of finagling, even got the covers over him, but when he went to leave, those slender fingers shot out and grabbed his wrist, even though Sherlock's eyes hadn't opened and his breathing hadn't changed. John huffed out a breath. Of _course_ he would be demanding, even in sleep. But what was it he wanted, exactly?

"John," he whispered again, face changing through what seemed like hundreds of expressions before those extraordinary eyes fluttered open, and those heart-shaped lips formed his name again, this time in surprise rather than that mournful voice John hadn't ever heard Sherlock use before.

"Sherlock. You were asleep on the couch. I thought you might be more comfortable here. I'm sorry if I woke you. It seemed like you were having a nightmare or something." The last sentence hadn't been meant to slip out, but John guessed it didn't matter, with Sherlock studying him like he wore the secrets of the universe on his face, if only Sherlock could peer deep enough. He doubted the taller man was even listening to him, at least until those lips quirked in a self-depreciating smile, which was certainly a new look on the normally arrogant man.

"Nightmare, yes. I suppose you could call it that. Do you know, John, that before I met you I'd never experienced the like?" Voice contemplative, Sherlock glanced down to where his hand _still_ held John's wrist captive, then looked back up, hand not so much as wavering in its implacable grip.

"I'm sorry?" John tried, wondering what the correct response was. He was pretty sure he hadn't found it, when Sherlock gave a low chuckle, eyes not lighting up but looking strange. John had seen that look before, in the eyes of his comrades back in war. Those were the eyes of men who knew they were about to do something which might lose them everything… but were convinced that, sink or swim, they were going to do it anyway. He was so caught up in trying to figure out what might have given Sherlock that look that he didn't even notice he was being drawn in until that Cupid's bow was pressed gently against his own mouth, at the slightest angle so their noses wouldn't bump obnoxiously.

It was the brush of a butterfly's wing, but it tore like a cyclone through everything John had thought he'd known, blew it all away and leveled it all, leaving him unsure of anything, anything but the incredible tenderness of the hand that stroked his cheek, even as the other slid up his arm from his wrist to touch his shoulder gently, urging him down to sit properly while Sherlock sat up, keeping their mouths connected even though it hadn't yet progressed from the most innocent of kisses.

He could have fought it, he knew. But there was something horribly fragile about Sherlock in that moment, as if for the first time in his life he was genuinely terrified of something—and that something wasn't pain or death or failure, but of losing _John_—and even if he hadn't been in the process of realizing he felt the same way, he doubted he could have pulled away if his own life depended on it. Sherlock needed something from him, and as always, he would do whatever it took to give it.

Those curious eyes fluttered open and watched him for a moment before Sherlock pulled back, his face cast in shadow and his expression as mysterious as ever.

"Sorry, John," he whispered, finally, and John realized he hadn't reacted at all. He hadn't pulled away, but that wasn't the same thing as kissing back _at all_. And now Sherlock thought he simply hadn't moved away because he was sparing Sherlock's feelings or something. God only knew. Either way, he seemed small in the darkness, smaller than John had ever known him to be, and then those eyes went wide with surprise when John's hand wrapped around the back of his neck and yanked him in for another kiss, this one not so gently.

Sherlock was quivering beneath his hand by the time John cursed himself, the fact that Sherlock had never done this before on the forefront of his mind as he took and demanded, instead of giving and offering. He tried to back off at once, to give the consulting detective a chance to stop him, but Sherlock let out a small moan and moved closer, making it clear that no matter how confused or afraid he was, he didn't want to lose the connection between them.

Settling for gentling the kiss, John tangled his hand in those dark curls, noticing that they were every bit as soft as he'd dreamed, and sipped carefully at those lips instead of nipping at them. Gradually, Sherlock stopped shaking, even letting out a sigh when John's mouth moved from his mouth to his throat, kissing and sucking gently, being careful to not leave marks on the seductive slope of alabaster skin. They hadn't yet discussed this, after all, and John wasn't at all sure what it was that Sherlock wanted from him.

For all he knew, this was entirely based off a need for comfort after a nightmare, and Sherlock might well blame him for the nightmares considering his earlier comment. It could be that this was all Sherlock's way of making John pay for making him feel… but it didn't feel like that, as Sherlock's hand came up to tentatively cradle the back of his head, moaning a little when John couldn't resist the urge to nip at the pulse that beat like a hummingbird's wing beneath his lips.

"John," Sherlock whimpered, head thrown back and voice needy, but what caught John was the slight hint of sadness, a quiet echo of the way he'd sounded earlier. It was a little bit too close to that same tone for John's comfort, and it was about that time that he realized Sherlock wasn't quite sure if he was awake or dreaming.

Pulling away slowly now, John looked him in the eyes, then very deliberately leaned forward and sharply nipped his lower lip, earning a startled gasp. Sherlock's eyes were huge, and his mouth was slightly open, and John had never seen a prettier sight. But he needed to be sure Sherlock was completely with him when they figured this out, and he had a feeling he wasn't going to convince him of that that night, when he still had alcohol on his breath.

"I've got you, Sherlock." John said quietly, pulling the genius into his arms and holding him there, simply stroking a hand down his back in an attempt to soothe them both. Need was a flame burning fast and wicked in his gut, yet to take advantage of Sherlock's vulnerability would be _wrong_. The idea left a sour taste in his mouth. John wanted to make sure that whatever happened, they were both aware of it, and that they both wanted it.

"John? Tell me what to do. I need…" Sherlock trailed off, because he wasn't at all sure what it was he _did_ need, only that John was the only person who could give it to him. The doctor smiled softly, brushing inky curls away from his face and cupping it tenderly.

"If this is still something you want in the morning, I promise you, I'll help you through it. But tonight, we're both a little raw, and I don't want us to start whatever this is because I'm a little tipsy and you had a nightmare. Tomorrow, we'll talk about it, and you can tell me if you still want this."

John was adamant, and had stood to leave when he felt that hand shackle his wrist again. It was the nearly childish plea, however, that made him stay, not any display of force or strength.

"Please stay with me tonight, John? I don't want to be alone." John wasn't sure what had triggered the burst of emotions in Sherlock, only that his dream must have been pretty horrible, and it would have taken more will-power than he possessed to walk away anyway, with such stark sadness in Sherlock's eyes. He stripped off his jeans and got back onto the bed, smiling gently at Sherlock, who carefully curled up pressed against him, watching him constantly as if he might flee at any second.

After a while, he realized John wasn't going anywhere, and exhaustion took over again. It wasn't long before Sherlock succumbed to his post-case collapse, and John was right behind him, a mix of dead adrenaline and alcohol allowing him an entire night of uninterrupted sleep.

To say he was amazed to wake up with Sherlock still in his arms, peeking up at him from beneath his mop of curls, would have been a gross understatement. Still, it was a lovely surprise.

"Hey there," John said with a small smile, absently carding a hand through his hair. Sherlock surprised them both by leaning into the gesture, eyes closing while the concern melted from his face to be replaced with something far warmer.

"Good morning." Sherlock's voice was shy, and his skin was flushed the slightest bit pink, thought it had only grown that way as John had been looking at him. How long had Sherlock been awake, watching him?

"How'd you sleep? Did you sleep?" John knew Sherlock didn't like sleep, so it was entirely possible he'd only rested for a few hours, though that wasn't his normal habit, post-case. John would have actually expected him to stay passed out long after he himself woke up, were it not for the unusual situation they were in. Sherlock, as of that moment, was going to be unpredictable.

"Well, thank you. I was… pleasantly warm. And yes, I slept. I've only been up for sixteen minutes, twenty seven seconds." And he'd been frantically wondering if John, now that the effects of the alcohol had worn off completely, would flee or get angry with Sherlock. He knew part of his desperation from the night before had been fueled by the fear that a sober John would never want to be with him like that, and he was ashamed of that fact. It would have been wrong of him to take advantage like that… but instead of running away or cursing his name, John was smiling at Sherlock, which was the last thing he'd expected.

"Good. I didn't drool or do anything equally embarrassing, did I?" John was clearly teasing him, trying to put him at ease, and Sherlock felt relief shooting through him. How had he ever doubted John? He wasn't the sort of man to do things he would regret under the influence of alcohol, and then say in the morning that he hadn't been himself. John was honorable and truly _cared_ for Sherlock in a way no one ever had, and if he'd said the night before that this was something he wanted, it had been an honest statement, even a promise.

"Well, now that you mention it…" Sherlock chuckled while John raised an eyebrow, an echo of one of his own habits when someone was trying to lie to him, and John surprised him by flipping them, straddling Sherlock and brushing the tips of their noses together in an undeniably affectionate gesture. It was the last thing the genius had expected—when was the last time someone had shown him affection?—and he found himself blinking up at John before, slowly, participating.

"Is this good, then?" The question was serious, and John was still holding himself a small distance away, waiting to make sure. Any nervousness Sherlock may have been feeling evaporated on the spot. John would never force him to do anything he didn't want to do, and would be an unfailingly kind, gentle teacher, who would walk him through the steps of this dance without ever making him feel stupid or wrong. It was a gift, to hold the regard of this man, and Sherlock vowed to himself that he wouldn't ever give John a reason to take it away again. He didn't think he could bear to be left alone when he was so close to everything he'd never known he wanted.

So Sherlock answered in the only way he knew how, by leaning up and closing the distance between them, so they were mouth to mouth, heart to heart, feeling like two halves of a whole that had finally, finally been fused together. A simple kiss had never done anything even remotely similar for John, and Sherlock, who had never been kissed by anyone but John, wondered if it always felt like this. If so, he could understand how the intoxicating sensation could inspire murder. He would kill for this; he would die for this. But how would he ever find the strength to pull away from it and solve crimes, let alone leave the bed?

John's kiss was an addiction, stronger than any he'd ever known, and it was madness, glorious madness, as it grew more heated, morphing from an answer to something else entirely, questions and answers in freefall, chasing and devouring each other and then being promptly forgotten, seared away by fire that burned, cleansed, irrevocably altered.

"Good," John gasped when they separated for a moment, having realized that part of the burn was in their lungs from lack of oxygen, and then they were attacking each other again, each caress more overwhelming than the last, and Sherlock was drowning in starlight, flying through the depths of the ocean, his brain fried and his transport, for once, completely in charge.

He wasn't sure exactly when it all became too much, only that he was suddenly trembling again, as he had the night before but worse, much worse, and John moved from ravishing him to kissing away his tears, all the while asking what was wrong, and what he could do to make it better. For a few moments, sensation had ruled him, but now the thoughts were back, tearing at him, and fears he'd tried so hard to not acknowledge were whispering insidiously in his ears, making him panic even though logic told him it was irrational.

"I just… You need to know, John, before this happens. You need to know… We didn't talk first." Sherlock's voice was barely above a whisper, and John shifted back, keeping close enough that Sherlock could reach for him but staying far enough away that they both had a little more room to breathe. Sherlock looked somewhere between relieved and forlorn, and John wondered what it would take to get him out of his head completely.

"No, we didn't, and we should. You're right about that. Forgive me. You're just so beautiful, Sherlock. You have no idea, how beautiful you really are. Even when you're being a petulant child, it's all I can do to not drown in the ocean in your eyes." Sherlock's heart melted at the display of poetry he hadn't thought John capable of, but he supposed the man had to have gotten his old army nickname from somewhere, and wooing girls usually required that sort of thing. Wooing Sherlock, however, was going to require significantly more than that, or so John thought. He didn't realize how easily he could make Sherlock crave him, how little it would take to become the addiction Sherlock could never be cured of.

Though it was frankly terrifying, Sherlock did trust John, which spoke volumes, since he couldn't recall trusting anyone except his brother since he was a small child. John wasn't the type to lie, or offer honeyed words he didn't mean, so no matter how romantic the things he said were, Sherlock also had to assume that they were genuine. And he wasn't quite sure what to do with that, yet.

"I… John. When I was gone, before, I felt… I missed you. And I wasn't in the habit of getting attached enough to anything that I would miss it. I know how fleeting things are in this life, thanks to the Work, and I never wanted to be as helpless as the victims whose cases I solve. But you changed me, somehow, and the worst part is that I don't seem to care."

Those words had rushed out, but the next ones, Sherlock knew, would be the hardest. He took a deep breath and let it out, trying to choose the right words, ones that wouldn't send John running.

"I didn't think myself capable of love, but I'm afraid I've quite gone and fallen. Even then, I never planned to say anything. You have to understand, John, I was going to let it go. I never imagined you would ever want me—why would anyone?—and I know you've always said you aren't gay, so I wasn't going to force myself on you. But I needed to protect you. I know you could go on without me, but I do not think I could go on without you. I would be, at best, a shade, a shadow of the man I am with you by my side. Nothing was worth losing you, and I know I might have made you feel lately like I don't need you, but the truth is, I need you more than ever. It's why the thought of you being in danger, especially because of me, makes me sick."

John very nearly got stuck on the first part of Sherlock's statement, but he knew that wasn't what Sherlock needed from him at that moment. Focusing on it would only make him retreat, so powerful was his fear. Though John's heart bled for the scared little boy that lived inside this man who was so nearly his lover, he decided to focus, for a time, on the facts.

"That's why you've been taking more risks lately. Because if it's your life on the line, I'm out of danger." John shook his head at Sherlock's logic, letting out a small, agitated growl as he raked a hand through his hair.

"Sherlock, you're a moron." The genius blinked at him, opened his mouth to speak, and promptly closed it again. Before he could put his shields up, however, John continued. "If you think for one second that I would _want_ to go on without you, you're completely mental. You are the best thing that ever happened to me, the person who has not only saved my life so many times, but also my sanity. You _gave me my life back_, and if I have a reason to live today, it's you. When I thought the other night that I might lose you because I wasn't fast enough… God, Sherlock, do you even know how much you mean to me? Clearly not, or else you wouldn't risk yourself like that."

John closed his eyes for a moment, knowing Sherlock needed patience, not anger. When he looked at Sherlock again, the younger man was watching him with hope and confusion warring in his eyes. Biting back an oath, John kissed Sherlock again roughly, before deciding he had enough control of his temper back to resume.

"As to the earlier parts of what you said… Yes, I'm not gay. But I'm not straight, either. I'm bisexual."

"There's always something," Sherlock began, but John held a hand up, needing to say it all before he got distracted. He couldn't go a moment longer without letting his infuriating, insufferable, idiotic, incredible flat mate just how he felt.

"And I love you, too. So next time you make a decision that impacts both of us, remember that. You're the one who gave me my life back; don't take it away from me again. Don't think for one second that my life means more than yours, because if it came down to a decision between you and me, I'd make sure you lived, every time. So when you think about what losing me would do to you, well, Sherlock, I would feel the same way about losing you. So no more chasing down murderers without me, and no more hiding your feelings. We've spent far too long doing that, you and I."

"John…" Sherlock looked conflicted for a moment, biting his lip and looking down at their hands, which had intertwined when neither of them had been paying attention and now lay between them on the mattress, clasped tightly together.

"I didn't realize. Perhaps I am an idiot, when it comes to this sort of thing. But I suppose that's to be expected. No one can be brilliant at everything. I'll never be as warm or kind or thoughtful as you, never know all the right things to say and do to make others happy. You deserve someone like that, you know." The sincerity in Sherlock's voice was painful, as if he was trying to talk John out of the one thing he hated more than anything but felt like he had to try anyway. John decided to put a stop to that nonsense right away.

"What you're saying is I deserve someone who can make me happy. Well, Sherlock, look in the fucking mirror." Sherlock looked startled by John's statement—or language, whichever—and the doctor pressed on. "I've never been as happy, or felt as motivated to be warm or kind or thoughtful, as when I'm right by your side, which is the only place I've ever felt at home. You turned my life around, and I am who I am today, instead of some bitter, hard-hearted vet with a limp and a chip on my shoulder, because of you. So if you want me to be happy, don't try to pawn me off on someone else. Just be with me. That's all I really want."

Sincerity was John's only weapon against Sherlock's fears, so he used it ruthlessly, bombarding him with the truth until he was lying there, staring with those wide, brilliant eyes, and then they were somehow all over each other again, caught right back up in the hurricane, but there was no stopping it this time.

Love. _This was making love_. The thought hit Sherlock unbidden as John's hands stripped him of clothes, leaving him open to the most pleasurable of assaults, and was swirled away just as quickly as one of those hands wrapped around his length, sending jolts of pleasure screaming through his blood until everything inside him was coiled tightly, waiting to explode in a flash of light and sound.

His own hands weren't idle, trying to give John the same pleasure he was receiving, and then they were naked together, the sheets getting kicked to the end of the bed while Sherlock handed John the lube from his nightstand. John didn't comment on the strangeness of the asexual consulting detective having lubricant, instead slicking three fingers up and slowly, carefully, working Sherlock open.

"I want to ride you," Sherlock gasped out, amazed that he was able to summon up words with electricity surging through him and turning his brain to mush. It was, he thought, the most pleasant way he could imagine to go.

John, who understood that Sherlock needed to feel like he had some control, understood the sentiment perfectly, so he didn't, couldn't, object. He simply nodded, carding a hand through those curls again while Sherlock moved to straddle him, still biting his lip in a way that was frankly adorable.

"Are you sure you're ready?" Holding on to his composure by a thread, John knew that once they progressed past this point, he wasn't going to be able to stop himself from taking Sherlock. But instead of looking nervous, as John expected, he looked every bit as excited as John was. His eyes blazed with _need_, no hint of fear dimming the fire as he slowly, slowly lowered himself down over John, taking him to the hilt.

Sherlock threw his head back and gasped when John finally bottomed out inside him, buried so deep Sherlock wondered how they could ever be separated again. When he began to move, he started with slow, rocking movements that very quickly weren't enough for either of them. It wasn't long before John's hands were on his hips, gripping tight enough that he would surely leave bruises. It was rough now; they'd let it go for far too long to slow down now, and they were racing for the finish, needing that final confirmation that they fit together in every way, that this was right.

Later, they knew, they would take it slow, would tease each other and talk during the act, maybe even laugh sometimes. And there would be times when they wouldn't have sex at all, but simply curl up together and watch a movie or talk about a case or John's work or Sherlock's music, and feel no need to express physically the realization that was being imprinted on both their bodies with every nip and scratch, every unintentional bruise and deliberate thrust. But in that moment, they needed completion, and they pushed one another ruthlessly toward climax, both crying out when they tipped over, momentarily deaf, dumb, and blind to anything but the other.

They floated to earth wrapped in each other, ignoring the mess smeared on their abdomens in favor of hold on to each other, seeking heat and comfort. Neither of them had ever experienced anything remotely close to the intensity of those orgasms before, and they both needed a few quiet minutes to process.

When Sherlock's phone went off, they both groaned, and Sherlock burrowed into John's neck, making the older man chuckle a little and pet his hair, until the phone rang again.

"We should probably get that, Sherlock. Could be important."

"Mmph," Sherlock responded, to John's great amusement, clearly uninterested in what went on outside the bed for that moment. But when the phone went off a third time, he finally dragged himself to where John had tossed his pants, scowling the entire way and looking far too adorable for a fully grown man in the middle of a strop.

"Holmes," he growled into the phone, making it clear that he wasn't in the mood to exchange pleasantries. This left Lestrade highly unimpressed, considering Sherlock was _never_ in the mood to exchange pleasantries, and he simply stated that he had a case which would be at least a seven, and that it was the serial killer case Sherlock had had his eyes on for the past two weeks, and could he please come down to the crime scene and take a look.

Sherlock bit his lip, caught between the temptation to go to the crime scene—a serial killer was better than Christmas, after all—and the need to stay with John and further explore their relationship and the new elements.

"We should go, before the killer strikes again. It's not as if we can't pick this up where we left off when we get home, Sherlock." John's tone was logical and brisk, but there was enough lingering appreciation and regret in those eyes that skated over his body to reassure Sherlock that John definitely didn't want to leave any more than he did. It was duty that called the doctor from the warm bed with his warmer lover, and only duty that compelled him to climb out of bed and head up to his own room to fetch clothes.

Decision made for him, Sherlock told Lestrade they would be there—and for heaven's sake don't let Anderson touch _anything_—and hung up, choosing the purple shirt John tended to look at a little more frequently than his other shirts, to go under the jet black suit that showed off his pale skin. When he decided he looked good enough to be seen in public, except for the rather obvious hickey John had left on his neck, he went to wait at the door. He didn't put on his scarf, when he pulled on his jacket, and John was grinning as they hit the streets.

There were _definitely_ perks to masochism, he decided as he took Sherlock's hand, brushing an absent kiss over the back of it and clearly startling his partner, who watched him, mystified for a second, before nodding sharply and tentatively squeezing his hand gently in response.


End file.
